Chapter 1: No Home

DISCLAIMER: Characters and such belong to Stephenie Meyer.

"Bella, you're crying, baby," Renee said as she stifled back her own tears.

"Oh. Am I?"

"Bella… Bella, honey…" My mother rubbed the running mascara into her cheek and started again, "Bella, I'm so sorry. You know I love you, honey. I just… I just can't take care of you anymore. I… I wish I could, but… but… but I just can't." She wiped her tan wrist across her nose in effort to wipe away her tears.

"Mom, it's alright. Forks will be better for me," I said with sadness, but no pain, "and I know that I need to live with Dad. I love you, but this is something you and I know that I have to do. For me. And for you."

"Oh, baby girl, I am going to miss you so much. Say hello to your father for me," she added that last sentence on as an awkward obligation. "Text me as soon as your plane lands. I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Mom." With that, I kissed her on the cheek, pulled my luggage out of the car, and walked towards the luggage check counter of the Phoenix airport.

Renee was sobbing, and I was jealous. She was sobbing because she felt emotional pain. Her body can translate that pain into sensations yet I cannot feel my own tears. I have CIPA, Congenital Insensivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. Basically, I feel no pain—which would be a dream to most people, but it's a nightmare for me. While other children learned not to touch a hot stove immediately, I have learned from the instruction of my doctors. In addition to feeling no pain, I also feel no taste, no change in heat, no sensations. I have to learn basic human survival skills like eating and peeing. I have a very small attention span, I cannot sweat, and I'm in constant danger of overheating. Like I said, it's a nightmare.

Six months ago, I was in the hospital for an infection of a cut on my foot that I hadn't noticed. That happens a lot—not noticing injuries, cuts, scrapes, or burns. And, as luck would have it, I am ridiculously uncoordinated, and constantly putting myself in dangerous situations. It was in the ER waiting room that she met Phil, her new husband. While I was receiving stitches in the bottom of my foot—not feeling anything but slight pressure—my mother was hitting it off with the minor league baseball player that broke his arm on a mechanical bull. And while I was forced to wear three layers of socks, so as not to rupture the stitches, Renee and Phil were falling in love. My foot healed and I've frequented the hospital many times for various reasons in the past few months, and over the course of that time period, Renee and Phil became engaged, and then married.

I'm usually pretty good about using the bathroom every two hours, feeding every four, and checking my body every morning for bruises and cuts—I've had to be, as my mother still believes that she is twenty-one, and can barely take care of herself. Still, I would not be alive without my mother keeping me out of the sun.

I love the Arizona sun. Although I cannot feel the heat on my skin, I love the colors it creates when it sets and rises.

Unfortunately, I am extremely susceptible to overheating, and cannot go outside very often. I was probably the palest person in Phoenix. Although I am homeschooled to prevent sun exposure, my mother constantly has to assist me in regulating my body temperature, and with Phil, she doesn't have as much time to devote to me. Thus, I volunteered to go live with my dad, Charlie, in the small town of Forks, Washington with nearly constant coverage of clouds. I'll still have to regulate my body temperature, but it should be easier without having to worry about the sun.

I really hate Forks. I would say that it's hell, but from what I can tell, it's cold. There is no sun to create the beautiful pinks and oranges of Phoenix sunsets, and everything seems so dreary. I used to live in the goddamn town, up until Renee left Charlie and took me with her.

Before my diagnosis, I had tons of bruises and scars that appeared from nowhere while Renee was at work. She blamed Charlie, and called him abusive. I'm not sure if she actually believed that Charlie was hurting me, or if she just needed an excuse to get out of Forks. Whether she did or not, CPS believed her story, and Charlie lost custody. When I was six years old and diagnosed with CIPA, Charlie's name was cleared, but Charlie and Renee had been divorced for two years, and she had no intention of going back to Forks. I grew to hate it as she did, and I've only seen my father for one week each summer for the past nine years, in which he stays in a hotel in Phoenix and tries to avoid my mom, except when receiving instructions on how to deal with my disease. I haven't been back to Forks since Renee and I left.

I only checked one bag that contained all of the clothes that I owned that were suitable for the cold, rainy Forks weather. Because I lived in the land of eternal sun, and I overheat so easily, I had very few winter clothes, all of which fit in one suitcase. After receiving my boarding pass, I glanced at my watch. 12:30 p.m.—bathroom time. As I hurried to the bathroom, I felt ashamed of my condition. Being unable to feel any pain or sensations means that I don't feel the "tingle" that alerts a normal person to use the bathroom, so I have a schedule. Let's just say that I lasted a week in kindergarten, and then Renee pulled me out because of my embarrassment. Over the years, I've developed my schedule, but other roadblocks have kept me out of Phoenix public schools: the sun exposure at recess, getting too excited by other children, the low nutritional value of cafeteria food, my introverted personality. Needless to say, I've been homeschooled ever since.

Finished brooding in my helplessness, I quickly checked my temperature to make sure it was under 100 degrees Fahrenheit, checked my arms, legs, and face for any unseemly cuts, and headed toward my flight. It was two bathroom breaks and a vitamin-rich meal from Phoenix to Seattle, where Charlie would pick me up for the equally long drive to Forks. That drive would be awkward—and believe me, I knew awkward.

Honestly, I was just glad that Charlie was taking this so well. I felt immensely grateful that Charlie still loved me enough to support me and my medical bills with his meager salary and let me and my freakishness take up a more-or-less permanent residence his home, even after I had seen him for only twelve weeks since I was two years old. Still, I was a little frustrated at his and Renee's insistence that I attend Forks High School.

"Bella, honey," I recalled my mother trying to calm me, "now that you're older and have virtually no slips, there are no psychological reasons why we should let you deny yourself a high school experience. And, it will be a lot harder for you to overheat in that god-awful weather." I hated that word, 'overheat'. It always made me feel like a malfunctioning computer.

"God-awful weather? Real encouraging, Mom. Besides, I technically don't even need to be in high school. I finished all of the required coursework and more. You do realize that I could enroll in college right now, right?"

"Babe, you're going to go to high school. No loophole on this one. We aren't forcing you to relive your kindergarten memories, just to form new ones." Love you too, Renee.

I shuddered at the memory of the conversation between Renee and me two weeks prior, and feared for the lack of conversation that was approaching me. It wasn't that I didn't like Charlie—I loved him, in fact—but we were both so alike, so introverted, so quiet. I wanted to prove to him that I was appreciative of his help during this difficult time, but trying to start an engaging conversation between Charlie and myself was like trying to light a wet match.

Speaking of a wet match, Washington was exactly as awful as my vague memories and my mother's stories. When I arrived in Seattle, it was raining, and everything was soggy. I said my farewells to the Sun in Phoenix, and had accepted that I wasn't going to like the weather. I sighed and quickly searched for Charlie's police car.

After loading my small suitcase into the back of the cruiser, Charlie gave me a brief side-hug, and leaned gently to take the giant umbrella from my fumbling hands. "How 'ya been, Bells?" He walked me to the right side of the police cruiser under the large, ominous umbrella and opened my door, allowing me to clumsily slide inside.

"I'm alright, Dad." I paused for a moment, and amended, "I've really missed you since last summer."

"Likewise. How's Renee doing?" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying so hard at small talk.

"She's doing well. She's really happy. I'm happy for her."

"Well that's… that's great." There was silence for a minute or two, and he started again. "Hey, Bells, I found the perfect car for you. Chevy pick-up."

"Oh, Dad, you didn't have to… I mean, I can't accept that after… It's really alright."

"Now, now. I'll have none of that. It's perfectly alright for a father to buy his daughter an old car as a welcome-home present. Besides, it was practically free."

I considered this for a moment, and resolved not to reject the gift. Charlie meant well, and he hadn't spent enough time around me to know how much I hated extra attention, particularly in the form of gifts or assistance. "Thanks, Dad," I replied, trying to put as much gratitude as possible into my response. "So… where did you find this cheap Chevy pick-up?"

"A guy down at the Quileute reservation, Billy Black. You used to beat up his son when you were a kid. Anyway, he bought the truck in 1984, but it runs like a dream. Jacob, his boy, fixed it up and everything. I made sure they installed a nice air conditioner to prevent any… incidents." He shifted uncomfortably again, as if I were humiliated when my own father brought up my disease. "I really do think you'll like it, Bells." He paused again, this time for about five minutes. "Oh, before I forget, kiddo, I transferred your files to the local hospital, so they should know all about you if there's an emergency."

I let out a tiny laugh. "You say 'if', like it's a possibility. Let's just hope they finish reading the file before I check in to the ER, alright?" I began to fear that Charlie didn't know what he was getting himself into.

The remainder of the drive home was relatively uneventful. Charlie fiddled around for the oldies station whenever we lost radio reception. I worked crossword puzzles to pass the time. We stopped three times for gas and bathroom breaks. For the last hour or so, I forced myself to sleep. I woke from my light slumber to the sound of gravel. Charlie noticed I had awoken, and said, "I was just about to wake you up, Bells. We're home."

"Alright, great," I said as the cruiser rolled to a stop.

Charlie left his headlights on to illuminate my new pick-up while he got my luggage out of the trunk, and I glanced at the old vehicle in awe. He could not have found a more perfect car. I had my qualms about the age of the truck—I didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to myself—but all fears were forgotten when I caught a glimpse. I rushed out of the cruiser, stumbling slightly on the gravel. I ran my hands over the paint, noting every bruise that directly reflected my own. I loved its rarity, and felt like I wasn't alone as a misfit on this world. After another minute or so of me ogling at my new truck, I turned to Charlie, who was leaning against his cruiser, letting me have my moment. "Dad, you were right. This is perfect. Thank you so much!" I ran up to Charlie, and gave him a giant hug.

Charlie patted my back a couple times, as a signal to release and finally said, "Okay. Geez, that's a tight grip you've got there. You're going to have some serious bruises in the morning if you don't lighten up, kiddo." With that, I released my death grip, realizing my grip was outside of a normal person's pain threshold. "Come on, let's get you situated."

I followed my father into the two-bedroom house, haunted by the shrines of family pictures from fifteen years ago. When my father wasn't looking, I placed a couple pictures of him and my mother face down, then quickly caught up with him as he was heading upstairs. I wanted to think of this as a new chapter rather of life rather than a return to a horrible childhood. The house was completely alien to me, as I had very few memories of my life in Washington, and even less of the layout of the house. Charlie stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around to face me, shameful. "I'm sorry… I should have thought more into this… there's only one bathroom. But don't stress over it, I usually shower at the police station, anyway."

"Dad, it's alright. I'm not too into all that frou-frou beauty product junk anyway. It's cool." I didn't really expect much, honestly, I mentally amended.

Charlie nodded, and pointed too the right. "Alright, well… that's your room right there, kid. The bed should be fine for your restraints, but if there is a problem we can always take it back." He scratched the back of his head, "You like purple, right? The saleslady picked out the bedding and all. Your mother always did the decorating and stuff, so I'm not very good at that kind of thing. It's okay, right?"

"Dad. Chill out." I peeked into the bedroom and finished, "The room looks awesome, Dad, thank you."

He nodded awkwardly, and went back downstairs. I walked into my new, or rather, my old bedroom, and looked around at the furnishing. There was a bed with a headboard that I could easily fasten my restraints to in order to prevent myself from hurting myself in my sleep. In the corner, there was a rocking chair, where my mother sat during my infancy, agonizing over why I never wanted to nurse, never cried, and slept twenty hours a day. I saw the decrepit computer on the antique desk, turned it on, and listened to its slow drone and the high-pitched buzzing of the dial-up. "Oh, crap," I muttered to myself, realizing that I had forgotten to let Renee know that I had arrived. I quickly pulled out my cell phone and began to type a message to the best of my ability.

I set the cell-phone down by the still-loading computer and unp/acked my suitcase. I hung my few articles of clothing on hangers in the tiny closet, set my alarm clock, attached my restraints, and arranged my spread of vitamins and supplements. The task complete, I sulked over to the bathroom, resolving to make myself go to sleep early in preparation for the next day.

First and foremost, I checked my temperature. One-hundred and one degrees. I stepped into a cold shower to help regulate it… well, according to the thermometer, it was a cold shower. I wouldn't know—I can't differentiate the temperature. After reducing my risk of overheating, I washed my face, careful to remove the small traces of mascara so that I didn't feel the urge to pick at my eyes.

Clean and raw, I looked in the mirror. I hated how my hair looked when it was wet, and I gathered the brown mop into a messy bun atop my head. I leaned in and scrutinized my features. My bottom lip was significantly more full than the top, and was healing in the places that I had bit too hard—a nasty habit that I was trying desperately to break. There were small scrapes and fading bruises all over my pasty white skin, but they would be easily concealed to the public by foundation. I stepped back from the mirror, and cocked an eyebrow at my reflection, fearful of what the other students would think of how I looked.

In Phoenix, I had a few friends that I knew from the home-school circuit or the hospital, but no one especially close. I had never been to a sleepover, had a pillow fight, been in a romantic relationship, or kissed a boy. I never knew whether I should attribute my lack of a social life to my introverted attitude, my seclusion from traditional schooling, or restrictions from my disease. I wanted so badly to feel accepted, to be a part of a clique, to be a teenage stereotype. And yet, as I strapped my arms to my restraints that night, I resolved to not seek out social attention, out of fear of rejection.

My dearest reader-kittens,

I cannot stress how important it is that you review, regardless of how many chapters are in the story, the number of reviews, or the date the story began. I am an insecure, self-conscious person and need affection to feel complete. So review, criticize, if only of for the purpose of catering to my psychological issues.

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Love and Helicopters,

Kat